Vindicating Vicky

By Ron Knight

Young, beautiful Vicky Lester grew up oppressed in dismal,gruesome,inner-city surroundings. She meets and befriends Stan,a lonely,kind man who encourages and helps her to strike out on her own and make a better life for herself. But Vicky is haunted by a horrific childhood secret,a trauma embedded so deeply in her psyche that even she can't confront it head on. Laden with dread and guilt, Vicky embarks on a memorable and promiscuous journey as if unwittingly acting out the tortuous playbook of her youth. Ultimately, emboldened by Stan,she struggles to overcome the painful memories she has hidden for so long. Will Vicky be able to find real love and a brighter future?
This deeply moving story also confronts us with the ageless, heart-wrenching question: Are individuals solely to blame for their actions, or is society?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Knight
• Release date: May 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476099798

Ron Knight

Ron Knight is the author of over 100 books and the founder of Ron Knight Entertainment which includes 81 Minute Books, Vortex 9 Films, Rose Water Games and Middle Room Haunted Store. Knight has worked as a marketing executive at Brand Eleven Eleven and SJT Enterprises.

Book preview

Chapter One

Vicky’s mind routinely replayed snippets of her past. Her thoughts often wandered back to bizarre occasions – like the dark spring night she had climbed into the passenger seat of a flashy red car driven by a boy known only as Moose. With her right leg vibrating nervously, she’d wondered not only what his real name was, but also where in hell they were going and why she’d agreed to take a ride with a burly guy she hardly knew. By the way the older girls from high school flirted with him, she had figured that he was a popular senior. She was in eighth grade, only fourteen at the time, and remembered feeling flattered that he had picked her up as she walked by the outside of the sweetshop hangout. Even when he’d parked on a deserted side street with hardly any conversation, and she pleasured him liked he asked, she remembered that it was oddly satisfying for her as it undoubtedly was for Moose. But that didn’t really matter. It was the way it went with all of her capricious excursions.

Snapping back to reality, she refocused on her image in the mirror. With devilish, deep blue eyes, Vicky Lester scrutinized herself, wondering if she was really as beautiful and sexy as she’d been told by everyone for as long as she could remember. Well, almost everyone, certainly not her mother or stepfather. Definitely not her mother. Her mom was too mean. For all of Vicky’s nineteen years, almost all of them spent right here in her mom’s apartment, sleeping in a pantry-sized bedroom off of the kitchen, she couldn’t understand why Mary Lester was so angry. There was no doubt that she was a serious alcoholic, hitting the bottle every afternoon. Still, Vicky had grown up hopeful, but never received as much as a consolatory hug from her mother. She finally had no more expectations. Plenty of questions, but no expectations.

As far as John Lester, her stepfather, he may have thought things about Vicky, but he never spoke of them out loud. Truth be told, he never had much to say about anything. He was a decent enough guy, she thought. Maybe kind of simple and lazy as hell, but at least he meant well. He was content parking himself in front of the television set, watching old movies most every day, bedecked in his undershirt and baggy boxer shorts.

It wouldn’t surprise Vicky if her parents had never been out of New Jersey. Or even out of Jersey City. Or even out of this decrepit three-story apartment building. Of course, Vicky had hardly left it either, but she had no choice in the matter. Having dropped out of high school at sixteen and hopped from one menial job to another, she hadn’t exactly afforded herself many opportunities to get out. No matter how hard Vicky tried to find something positive or pleasant, she never felt love or affection here. She never felt safe.

This place gave her palpitations and cold shivers. It wasn’t just her mom’s demons; it seemed as if the old building itself projected a haunted life of its own: the crumbling brick of the front steps, the creaky stairway that growled and grumbled all the way up to the third floor, the chipped paint peeling off the faded, gray walls of the hallways, the bare light bulb that dangled precariously over the second floor landing. And especially the old man with savage hair who once lived alone in the second floor apartment who would magically appear at the oddest times. Everyone had called him Mr. Monk because he lived such a secluded life, rarely seen outdoors. She never did get a clear look at him despite years of his mastery over her before he disappeared.

She was three years old when it all began. Mr. Monk fed her lollipops whenever they’d meet inconspicuously outside his door, usually when Vicky was on her way downstairs to play outside. The light bulb on the landing was routinely turned off with only a shadowy stream of light flickering from inside his partially opened door.

Hi there, my pretty little friend, he would say. You’re such a good girl, look what I have for you. He would hold up two or three lollipops. What color do you want today?

She only liked red. She’d take the lollipop, unwrap it, and gleefully put it into her mouth. Mr. Monk took the wrapper then gently patted her on the head.

What do you say? he would ask. He always spoke in a half-whisper with a foreboding grin.

Thank you, she replied shyly, joyously licking the lollipop.

That was the routine. It would usually occur once or twice a week, but it all changed when Vicky turned four. Everything degenerated. Forever after, she’d agonize about Mr. Monk and the monstrous part he’d played in her life until she was nine. That’s when he mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

For over fifteen years, the memory of Mr. Monk haunted Vicky along with the vision of that dusty, dangling light bulb on the second floor landing that’s been conspicuously aglow ever since he left.

Vicky twisted her body to look back over her shoulder and thrilled at her own curves. She ever so lightly flicked her fingers down the soft, creamy flesh of her taut body, past the cusp of her waist, over her sculptured hips, then between her legs. Legs that she’d been told, along with her illustrious backside, were so amazing that they appeared to be designed by a higher power for the sole purpose of driving men crazy.

She had no choice but to stand close to the full-length mirror propped against the wall in her bedroom. There wasn’t enough space to back up without bumping her legs against the foot of the narrow, metal bed frame. The tiny room was cramped with a doily covered night-table, an antique lamp, and a maple dresser that looked as prehistoric as the apartment building itself. John had installed a used air-conditioning unit for the summer that covered the lower half of the window. The blocked view of the alley and the apartment buildings in back was no loss. No grass to see, just cracked concrete, a broken chain link fence, and an ankle-high clutter of empty cans and shattered beer bottles. An abundance of noise filtered into her room. Neighbors screamed and hungry, lean alley cats screeched relentlessly throughout the night. Worse than that, the sun never shined into Vicky’s room. A discolored vinyl shade over the upper part of the window blocked any hint of daylight. She often wished that she could lie naked in her bed and soak in the warmth of the sun, even if it was only the Jersey City sun. Never happened. It wasn’t meant to be.

With the exception of her winter clothes stored in corrugated cartons in the building basement, everything she owned was in this room. There was no closet, her spring and summer outfits that didn’t fit into the dresser were stuffed in flat boxes under her bed. Sometimes the cramped feeling made Vicky want to scream, other times it made her want to cry. No matter the frustration, nothing was going to change or get better as long as she remained here. What choices did she have? There were no other options. Not now, anyway.

She didn’t bother with a bra, just listlessly flipped the scooped-neck top over her honey-blond hair and watched it drape over her firm, full breasts like a fitted sheet. The color of the top brought out the blue in Vicky’s eyes, and her thick hair cascaded alluringly over her shoulders. She showed a little cleavage, but if she knew anything at all, guys would stare at her boobs and butt no matter what she wore. At times she felt surrounded by horny guys who saw her as a sex object and nothing more. She often wondered if they were right.

Girls weren’t much better. They looked at her as a pariah. It confused her as to why women in television, movies and magazines did whatever they could to appear sexy and yet she was an outcast. They obviously tried with their make-up and skimpy clothing. Even in commercials they were half-naked. Why not Vicky Lester? Was she supposed to do whatever she could not to be appealing? To hell with that. She had to admit that she liked the attention. The scrutiny made her feel desirable. She knew that she was attractive, seductive actually, and she enjoyed playing the sex card. After all, Vicky knew that she looked the part, knew what guys were after, and to avoid the lonely, empty feelings that often gripped her, she felt that all the attention, good or bad, was a hell of a lot better than no attention at all. Knowing what they wanted to see, she accommodated them. Show some skin, tight clothes, mini-skirts – whatever turned them on. Maybe not all the time, but most of the time.

Mary and John Lester had lived their entire lives in Jersey City, the last twenty in this three-story apartment building at 43 Dustin Avenue, walking distance to the downtown shopping area of Journal Square and to the supermarket where Mary worked as a part-time cashier. Unfortunately, Terry’s Tavern, a popular neighborhood bar, was located halfway between home and the supermarket. It was irresistible to Mary, she stopped in regularly for at least a shot or two. Mary was a thirty-seven year old alcoholic who could easily pass for fifteen years older. She carried the worn, craggy mask and weight gain of a woman that sucked down hard booze with beer chasers on a daily basis.

Mom, please stop drinking. It makes you miserable, Vicky often pleaded.

Shut up, you little tramp, Mary typically retorted. What the hell do you know?

Often followed with, I should have flushed you down the toilet! This was one of her favorite remarks.

Eventually, five years ago, Vicky stopped trying to reach her, to somehow get through to her. John didn’t have a take on it. He’d shrug and resign himself to the fact that Mary worked from eight o’clock in the morning until noon six days per week before coming home and drinking for the rest of the day. Hell, she’s a functional drunk. She keeps her job. Plus she’s great in the sack. She’ll do anything and everything!

He may have been apathetic, but if it hadn’t been for her stepfather, Vicky often wondered what would have become of her. Truth be told, it was John Lester who’d insisted that he and Mary bring little Vicky home with them soon after they’d been married. Vicky’s birth was one big family mystery. To this day, Mary would never talk about it, acknowledge, or discuss any part of it with anyone, certainly not with Vicky. No one but Mary knew the truth of what actually happened. Rumor had it that she’d given birth unwed at the age of eighteen with no idea of who fathered the baby. Supposedly, Vicky’s father was a one-night stand, an unknown sailor from New York whose name Mary didn’t even know. Jeanine, Mary’s mother, alive at the time, wouldn’t let her consider abortion. From there, the story gets even more convoluted. Supposedly, immediately after giving birth, Mary gave the baby girl away to a foster home in Pennsylvania, or to an aunt, or to someone, somewhere in Pennsylvania. No one could ever make heads or tails of the story. Whatever the case, soon after Mary and John were married they drove out to see the baby girl at John’s urging.

John stared at Mary in disbelief. She’s so beautiful, such a cute little thing. How can you leave her like this? She’s your eighteen month old daughter. Dammit, woman, she belongs home with us! It was probably the most assertive he had ever been in his life. That is, if this version is at all true.

Reluctantly, Mary weakened. Okay, but you’ll have to help me with her, John. I don’t want it all on me.

John did more than help, he legally adopted her and changed her birth name from Mary’s maiden name of Barnes to his name, Lester. That very day, they put Vicky in their car and took her home.

Ever since hearing that story, it left Vicky feeling insecure and sad. She couldn’t begin to count the nights that she’d cried herself to sleep when she was little – and when not so little.

It was well after noon by the time she stopped dissecting herself and decided to finish dressing by squirming into tight stretch jeans and four inch heels. She applied a little foundation, a touch of mascara and eye shadow, and was ready to walk the three blocks to Journal Square. Vicky closed the bedroom door behind her and was about to pass through the kitchen when Mary came through the front door of the apartment carrying a bag of groceries.

Where you goin’, hot stuff? A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.

I’m going to the Square. I want to try to find a job, Vicky answered without looking at her. She had learned to ignore her mom’s caustic remarks a long time ago.

Mary placed the bag on the kitchen table. Help me put away this stuff, would you? She sat down on a kitchen chair and kicked off her shoes. Shit, I’m tired. She flipped the cigarette into the sink and started rubbing her feet. Vicky unloaded the shopping bag and began to put the items away.

You’re lookin’ for a job dressed like that? Mary sneered.

Vicky ignored her. She’d heard that tone a million times before. Besides, there was no way she’d expected to hear anything at all civil from her mother.

I’m going to try to find a job at one of the small stores. Maybe a stock job or cashier, Vicky said.

Well, come to think of it, I can’t think of a time when you haven’t looked slutty. You must think you’re sexy, but trust me, you look like a slut. Her tone dripped with spite. Mary shuffled over to the cabinet and pulled out a new bottle of twelve dollar Scotch.

After Vicky placed the last item in the fridge, she hustled out of the apartment. When she walked down one flight to the second floor landing, she irresistibly glanced at the rusty light fixture with the single bulb. The light was on but a deep-felt twinge of fright still gripped the pit of her stomach. An eerie, searing sensation snaked all the way down to her abdomen. She heard faded sounds in her head, murmurs of a hushed, deep voice. Scary. Raspy. The walls seemed to crawl in on her. Those ugly, filthy walls confined her. As she scampered down the stairway to the first floor, she could feel rage boiling and percolating deep inside her belly. She pushed the front door open, practically stumbled out, and on this otherwise typical Jersey City day in the middle of June, as the sunlight instantly mesmerized her, Vicky resisted the urge to cry. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, if the warm sun could shine on her all through the day, every day? Maybe then she could erase the horrifying secret of the second floor. And maybe someone, some day, would tell her that she was loved.

Chapter Two

Hi, angel, John greeted her cheerily. He was perched on the stone stoop, watching the neighborhood kids play in the street. Almost half of the population of Jersey City is foreign born from some twenty-five different countries. It seemed as if all the countries were represented on Dustin Avenue. Every color, creed, religion, nationality, whatever. Vicky actually thought it was kind of neat. Sure, there was plenty of crime in the city – there was always something going down - but it wasn’t because of racial conflicts. Just a lot of bad stuff, especially from City Hall. It seemed as if politicians and big shots were constantly getting arrested.

Vicky shielded her eyes from the sun. Hi, Dad. What’s up? She bent down to kiss him on the cheek. It was scruffy from not being shaved for three days. He was wearing his usual sleeveless undershirt with baggy overalls. Mary did the wash, but never ironed. John couldn’t care less. Vicky had done her own since she was ten.

Nothin’, just watchin’ all the delinquents going nuts out here. He smiled, leaned back, and stretched his legs out on top of the railing. She put one knee on the bench and flipped the straps of her bag over her shoulder. She surveyed the scene in front of the house. Kids were playing in clusters – the girls squealing and skipping rope, the boys playing kickball. She knew almost all of them and a few she’d babysat for when she was younger. She started to babysit in the neighborhood when she was nine years old but it just didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. Not because she was afraid or anything, but because too many other factors interfered. The kids were easy enough to take care of, the parents weren’t.

She noticed in the sunlight that John’s hair had more gray than she’d realized. He wasn’t so young, she remembered. He was forty-nine, twelve years older than Mary, and he would be turning fifty in a couple of months. Funny thing, she thought, he acted much younger than Mary. John was good-natured, sort of simple, but most of the time he was pleasant and likable. He didn’t have a steady job, in fact, he rarely worked. He insisted that he was a welder by trade and wouldn’t accept menial work. He hardly ever found welding jobs, so occasionally he would pick up a days’ work doing odd jobs like shoveling snow for the city in the winter. John never did apply for a real job, probably because he couldn’t fill out applications or write anything other than his name. Vicky didn’t know for sure, but she heard he never got past the third grade in school. But he wasn’t bitter or angry about anything. Sometimes though, he was too simple and unassuming. Whenever he’d take a shower, he would simply walk in the nude to and from the bathroom. He never felt the need to cover himself in front of Mary or even Vicky. The bathroom was situated on the other side of the kitchen, directly across from her parents’ bedroom, and John casually walked around naked in full view. Vicky was accustomed to seeing John in the nude ever since she was a baby. Even now he wasn’t self-conscious or shy about it. For that matter, neither was Vicky. John was fit and trim and proud that he had no hair on his body.

Hair doesn’t grow on steel, he liked to boast.

Vicky did remember that Mary barked at John when Vicky had turned seven or eight to cover himself with a towel, but he giggled and ignored it. She grew to understand that it was harmless and it became a non-issue over the years. But amusedly, she could remember back when she was only about three, when his private parts dangled in front of her as he passed by. It fascinated her then. It looked so strange, so very different, and she sometimes thought about touching or grabbing it when he walked by, but never did.

She knew that John meant no harm. He was much different than Mary. He didn’t put people down or enjoy making nasty remarks about them. Mary viciously referred to their neighbors as niggers, spics, towel-heads, whatever. It made Vicky cringe. It wasn’t just when Mary was drinking, it was all the time. She was so damn nasty. Vicky hadn’t figured out what made her that way or why she was so bitter and hateful, and at this stage she concluded that she probably never would.

Vicky started down the steps. I better be going, Dad. I want to check out the stores in the Square for a job.

Good luck, Vick. I hope you find somethin’.

As she walked up the block toward Journal Square, past dreary houses that smelled of fried fast food, Vicky thought of how typical that was of John, simply wishing her luck, unlike Mary who had to put her down. Mary was probably guzzling her Scotch and getting blasted at that very moment. Vicky shook her head in disgust and tried hard to force that image out of her head.

C’mon, she thought, it was a beautiful spring day, and maybe, just maybe, she’d find a job that would be a ticket out of her mom’s house. She wanted to think positive. Just because it hadn’t happened yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t now. Hell, at nineteen it’s about time. It’s way past overtime.

Vicky thought it was going to happen two-and-a-half years ago when she had the incident with Mike Foley. She was still in high school, in tenth grade, when she became pregnant and just knew that he was the guy. He was eighteen, a senior, and one of the jocks all the girls were after. It was an accident of course, but she liked him a lot – really a lot – and she thought he really liked her also. They were sort of dating; he took her for long rides in his sporty Camero and once in a while they went to a diner or a movie together. But mostly they spent their time alone in his parents apartment. His mom and dad were rarely home and he had a separate rear entrance to his room. They could hang out with complete privacy. Even though she’d been with plenty of the boys in school and many of them were his friends, she thought it was different with Mike. He was good looking, athletic, and the star of the football team. The other boys stopped hitting on her when he’d started to take her out, so she allowed herself to believe it was because he liked her for more than her looks. Sure, he liked the sex with her as much as she did, but she’d hoped he liked her as a girlfriend. Or even more than a girlfriend.

They were two months into the relationship when she’d discovered that she was pregnant. She was sixteen when the doctor confirmed it and there was just no way she could tell her mom or John. There was no one to turn to except for Mike.

Vicky had Mike drive to an isolated spot in Liberty Park by the Hudson River with a close view of the Statue of Liberty. The imposing structure loomed over them as they sat together in the car. She turned halfway to face him and folded her left leg under the other. Though she flashed a smile to assure him that she was in control, he couldn’t help but notice her nervousness as she reached for his right hand.

I need to tell you something, she started quietly. She tried to keep her voice from cracking.

He twisted his body toward her, his expression curious. What’s up?

She clutched his hand tighter with both hands. Mike, I like you a lot. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone. She cleared her throat and moistened her tongue with her lips. He said nothing. He just stared at her. Mike, I’m pregnant, she said meekly, almost in a whisper.

He stared expressionless for what seemed to be an hour – but it was only a moment. A horrible moment. He frowned at her. What are you telling me? His voice tight and frigid. He violently pulled his hands from her grip.

I’m pregnant and I know it’s yours. It sounded apologetic. She took a deep breath to stop herself from crying.

Yeah, right, he snorted in total disbelief. You’ve got to be kidding me!

He turned away from her to stare out the window, angry that he was in the position to hear such bullshit. Angry that this whore was telling him the last thing he ever wanted to hear. He turned back to face her with total disdain.

How could you say it’s mine? he demanded, his eyes penetrating her. You’ve practically been with every guy on the football team. Everybody knows that. His voice was mean and hostile. Everybody in school knows you’re a slut. Why do you want to pin this on me? He pursed his lips and looked away in disgust.

Vicky could no longer hold back the tears. They filled her eyes, blurring her vision. I haven’t been with anyone but you for a long time, she murmured. She felt the blood rising in her cheeks and wanted to blurt out, I gave